


Goodbye Stranger

by EdgarAllenPoet



Category: Batman (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Clark’s POV, Gotham is horrible, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, not quite porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 11:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15863097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: Superman and Batman hook up for a mission as Clark and Bruce and fail to recognize each other.





	Goodbye Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nye2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nye2020/gifts).



> The prompt for this was something along the lines of “You should write a pure porn without plot. Absolutely no plot. But I want it to be Superman and Batman. And they should hook up for a mission, but as their civilian identities, and have no idea who they’re hooking up with, yknow? So I guess it’s porn with plot. Porn without plot with plot. That’s what I want.”
> 
> Assume for this fic that Bruce and Clark don’t recognize each other out of uniform.

This was not the worst thing Clark had ever done for a mission.  That’s what he kept telling himself, at least. This seedy little motel might have been the grossest place he’d ever been, but that’s what he got for being in Gotham. 

 

Metropolis had plenty of downsides- corporate greed, average crime rates, a gang problem that was just barely being kept under control- but at least it was  _ clean _ .  Just looking at the sidewalk made Clark itch for a shower.  The air quality made him homesick for the homestead. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten himself wrapped up in this.

 

This was the last time he listened to Nightwing, Clark lied to himself.  He was a nice kid, always had been, but he had a nose for mischief and a talent for wrapping other people up in it.

 

Not that this was mischief.  Not that there was anything innocent about hanging around a corner that was  _ known _ for such activities.  When their target had shown up with a handgun barely hidden in the waist of his pants and a cruel smirk on his face, Clark had wanted to reveal his true colors and take him on then and there.  He wanted to see what a common pimp would do when faced with a very pissed Superman.

 

But the girls on the corner were obviously wary of him, and while Clark might have been bulletproof the ladies certainly were not.

 

That, and Clark had been none-so-kindly asked to stay far, far away from Gotham.  He’d had been respecting those wishes until the boy called him up, saying that Batman may or may not be in some serious trouble.  He’d given him an address and a loose description of what to look for. Clark had strong opinions about keeping his friends safe, whether they hated him or not.  What Bats didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

 

So the plan had been easy.  Hit the corner he’d been assigned and keep an eye out for either 1. Batman or 2. Trouble or 3. Both. 

 

He found trouble for sure, and a man who was obviously in over his head as he followed the strapped pimp down the broken sidewalk and towards the greasy hotel.  He wasn’t exactly volunteering, or if he was, he wasn’t happy about it. Clark may have been here for Batman, but he wasn’t about to watch a civilian get hurt. 

 

Clark took a few steps after them, and the pimp turned to him baring a yellow smile.  “Bright idea, Hercules. The more the merrier.” 

 

Clark knew the Bats had to be close by, and he also knew that showing himself in Gotham would result in a fight the likes of Metropolis had never seen.  The likes of Gotham had probably seen it, but then again they’d already seen everything. The fight would still be bad, even by their devastatingly low standards. 

 

So with the Bats close by, Clark’s identity still under wraps, a potential sexual assault victim, and not a lot of options, Clark walked obediently into the indicated motel room and kept calm as the pimp locked the door behind him. 

 

Worst comes to worst, it turns into a firefight and Clark acts as a human shield while taking the man’s gun away and knocking him unconscious with it. He’d be gentle, but not too gentle.  This was Gotham afterall. 

 

The motel room smelled like old B.O. and dust.  An ancient box TV sat perched on the dresser, which was so old that the paint was glossy and chipping off in stripes.  The bed was propped up on wheels, and it groaned pitifully when the other man in their situation sat down on the edge. Clark assessed their exit points (any angle he wanted, really, if it became necessary.  This place wasn’t built very well. More conveniently, the front door or barred window. The bathroom had no windows or openings- a perfect tornado shelter). A spider clung to a piece of peeling wallpaper in the corner of the room. 

 

There was a folding chair shoved under a TV tray that may have passed for a desk with enough imagination.  The pimp pulled it out recklessly, letting the legs clatter against the dresser and knocking off another flake of old paint.  Clark watched him throw himself down in it, legs sprawled and gun held idly on one knee. He considered taking him out then and there, but sitting down was safer than touching either of them.  He weighed his options. 

 

“Get to it then,” the pimp said, motioning between the two of them with the gun.  The other man’s eyes followed it carefully. “I ain’t paying you to sit there and stare at me.” 

 

Clark didn’t know he was paying them at all.  He didn’t know exactly what he expected, either, until the other guy rose to his feet and turned to face Clark.  He traced a line from Clark’s knees to his eyes, smirked just a bit with the corner of his mouth, and cocked his head to the side. 

 

He stared Clark straight in the eyes as he shucked his pants to his knees. 

 

Oh. 

He was muscular, thighs made from tight cords of muscle that stood out through his skin tight boxer briefs.  They were black. Silky. They reflected the light. The man pulled off his shirt after stepping out of his slacks, and Clark looked him over as the clothes were folded perfectly and set aside. 

 

He was stronger than Clark would have guessed, certainly not shaped like someone you would expect to be a victim.  But Clark knew better than to make assumptions, especially in Gotham. This city wasn’t kind to anyone. 

 

Especially not this man, apparently.  The number of scars littering his skin was surprising.  All different sizes, all smattered across his arms, shoulders, side, and chest.  Burn scars, old abrasions, what looked like healed bullet wounds. What the hell did this guy do for a day job?

 

Maybe he hadn’t gotten mixed up in this mess on accident.  He had the physique of someone who went looking for trouble. 

 

“Shy?” the man asked, stepping forward and stopping just a breath’s distance away from Clark.  Clark looked down at him, just a few inches, and found something familiar in the gaze that he couldn’t place. 

 

“This is… I’ve never….” He’d been raised to be more eloquent, even if he was from Kansas.  Regardless, he couldn’t quite get his voice to cooperate. 

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” 

 

Gentle he was.  They hadn’t gotten very far at all (though it was farther than Clark had ever gone with anyone besides Lois), Clark sitting on the edge of the bed and the not-exactly-victimized stranger kneeling between his thighs.  He’d been mouthing his way up Clark’s thigh, and it was almost distracting enough for Clark to tune out the pimp’s heavy breathing and the wet noises that had begun to chime from that side of the room. 

 

That was as much as they’d accomplished when the door slammed open, and just like that chaos erupted around them.  Clark should have known this would end in a fight, but he wasn’t the one who was fighting. Police burst through the kicked-in front door while Clark’s handsome stranger kicked off the floor, leapt from the bed to the dresser, and shot up through a loose ceiling tile before disappearing from sight.  Clark heard a latch slam shut above him and adjusted his vision to watch the man sprint across the roof. 

 

Well shoot.  He’d been expecting this. 

 

If Clark had to guess, he’d say it was a set up.  Tip off the cops and then keep the guy in one place long enough for them to catch him in the act- i.e., paying for sex. 

 

Not that sex had happened (though it wasn’t like Clark was disappointed or anything), nor had any payment exchanged hands, but that was for the detectives to worry about.  Clark had bigger problems. 

 

Such as being caught naked in a room with a man known for hiring out sex workers.  Illegal sex workers. Well shoot. 

 

Officially out of options, Clark yanked his boxers back up his thighs and grabbed his clothes.  The shouldered a cop out of the way- holding back his strength so the cop  _ didn’t _ go flying through the wall with the force- and then dove out the window.  

 

Glass sprayed everywhere.  Clark hit the ground running.  He sprinted at inhuman speeds, rounded a corner out of eyesight, and took off into the air.  At least he had the night for cover. He might be able to get out of there undetected. 

 

Flying while struggling into his clothes was difficult but not impossible.  He’d barely had his pants buttoned again when his phone began to ring. He fished it out of his pocket and squinted down at the screen.  Nightwing. Of course. 

 

There was a text waiting for him that read,  _ mission accomplished!! :)  _

 

Mission….  Nightwing didn’t know.  He couldn’t. Not a chance.  That hadn’t been the set up. Whatever that was, it hadn’t been what they were going for.  He hadn’t even  _ seen _ Batman.

 

Ah well.  Whatever happened was none of Nightwing’s business, and Clark decided to leave it and the unanswered text message behind in Gotham.  A lot of things were better off left in Gotham. Clark flew home as fast as he could and made up his mind not to think about it. 

 

He’d have plenty of time to think about it later… in bed…. Unimportant. 

 

This was not the worst thing Clark had ever done for a mission, he’d decided, but it was definitely the last time he listened to Nightwing.


End file.
